


Steam

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Public Sex, bath house, steam room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14100615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: An adventurous tale in a local bath house, one not fit for the Strand to print.





	Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Public sex, nonetheless shielded from voyeurs. Holmes and Watson are deeply in love. Thanks to Merinda for beta reading!

_I shouldn’t commit these words to the page. This I know too well, and yet I am compelled to have them, hidden as they will be in the compartment under the false bottom of my trunk. I pray that none but us see them, and that they will give us a smile when we are too old for much in the way of action any longer. Much as a man is loath to think of such days, I am a doctor after all and know it is possible, perhaps even likely, should we be blessed to live so long. I hope that despite our many mishaps and adventures, that we do. Besides which, man of science though my love may be, it sometimes gives rise to the most beautiful pinking of his cheeks to make him read aloud what things we’ve done. And so without further ado, here is the story of an evening, Thursday last, if I am not mistaken. A tale not fit for the Strand to print:_

The steam swirled around us, veiling us from sight, at times even obscuring us from one another. It was so unlike the dry heat of the Turkish baths to which we were more accustomed, but this felt good now and again. Today most of all. The humid air filled my lungs and seemed to ease the last of the winter cold away and restore some movement to the shoulder which had been bothering me more of late. 

The attendant poured more water over the stones and I couldn’t see my Holmes, nor any of the men scattered about the room. I knew they were there, as the steam had not been so thick when we arrived. Two by the door I saw when we came in, likely young lovers themselves. The old man on the opposite side of the room I recognized from the few times we had visited before; he came for the relative quiet and the healing properties of the baths and wasn’t fussed about why the other men came here. 

Likely there were one or two others, for the door opened a minute ago, but all were far enough away and none would be disturbed even if they were to notice any actions we might be inclined to undertake. All to say, we were safe here, for most who came to use this particular bath house were similarly inclined.

Holmes guided my hand until I could feel how he sat upon the bench, turned toward me with one foot on the floor and the other braced against the fragrant cedar bench. He was at once completely exposed and yet not laid bare to anyone’s gaze in the slightest, the white swirling mists of steam shrouding us. I could summon neither the will nor inclination to resist him. My hand brushed against his entrance and found he was already slicked with oil. It ignited my lust further to imagine how he must have prepared himself with the fragrant almond oil in the changing rooms, his fingers stretching this secret orifice, sliding deep to open himself for me. We could never be guaranteed a moment such as this, but he had hoped and prepared for it. 

I bent low over him, catching his lips with mine in a brief kiss.

“Watson, my dear Watson. Touch me,“ he whispered against the shell of my ear and I was lost in desire.

I slid my hand down his chest, damp with the mingling of steam and sweat, finally reaching his cockstand, already proud and ready for me. I stroked him languidly and kissed him again, deeper this time and he moaned softly into my mouth in reply. 

“Shh, love,” I murmured. “It won’t do to disturb the other patrons.”

There was a muffled groan from another corner of the room, and as Holmes buried his face in the crook of my neck, I felt his smirk. These patrons were unlikely to be disturbed by much, and certainly not by such love as this and both of us knew it. My conceit towards privacy always amused him, much as it delighted me to make him control himself, and on this day things were no different between us. 

When I pulled back, only long enough to spread out my towel, he made a small sound, almost a whimper, at the loss of my touch. It was my turn to smile. 

Once, not long ago, (though before our acquaintance, I must say), this great man deprived himself of intimate company and indeed of all pleasures (save for that short lived rush provided by his 7% solution). Presently? He was positively greedy for carnal attention, a fact for which I felt both gratitude and I must admit, some responsibility.

Shifting forward again, I braced myself over him, reaching down to align my own manhood with his oil-slicked entrance.

I couldn’t see his face as I breached him, but I knew the look he must wear, so etched into my mind’s eye and emblazoned on my heart. His head thrown back, his lower lip caught between his teeth, clenched enough to whiten the flesh, but just short of hard enough to draw blood. I didn’t need to see him to know how his hair had fallen into disarray from the steam and our exertions. 

There was heat all around me, from the steam, our sweat, and his body eagerly enveloping me, drawing me in with gentle pulses as he flexed and relaxed just so. I stilled myself with a mighty effort. I longed to thrust into that tight heat, to make him moan beneath me, but first, I held myself rigid above him and simply savoured the way we fit together, how his flesh fluttered around me. 

After a moment, Holmes shifted beneath me, rolling his hips. “Move, my dear Watson,” he murmured against my ear, “Or I shall have to tumble you off this bench and ride you myself.”

I chuckled darkly and snapped my hips forward. “Now, now, I hardly think a little steam would cover up all that ruckus.” I whispered back, but took pity on the man and began to ravish him in earnest.

He writhed against me like a wanton creature, abandoning himself to our pleasure, restrained only in his vocalizations. He didn’t dare cry out, such was our game, for he knew I would stop. His groan of pleasure caught in his throat, reduced to a stuttering series of glottal stops and hitches in his breath. 

I thrust harder, filling him again and again until my Christian name spilled from his lips in a soft sigh, audible only to me, and his seed splashed against my stomach. I rode him through his crisis, knowing how he relished being completely overwhelmed by sensation, until at last I too shook and trembled in climax above and inside him. 

My breath ragged and panting, I pulled out and gathered up towels. I let him lay back as I smoothed the damp terry cloth over his skin, scrubbing him down and then myself, clearing away all evidence of our pleasure. 

In the dim light, the steam cleared a bit and I saw him sit up and languidly stretch, before the attendant poured more water over the stones, another cloud of vapor obscuring us. Holmes set about smoothing my hair and then his own a bit with his fingers, making us presentable enough to leave the room. 

When we emerged, his rosy cheeks could be attributed to the heat, but not his devilish grin. He sauntered off ahead of me, procuring two more towels and laying them out on the wooden lounge chairs near the bathing pools. 

As I entered the room after him, I caught one gentleman eyeing Holme’s physique over the top of his newspaper. I couldn’t fault him for admiring the view, yet a fierce, protective fire filled my chest. I pressed the palm of my hand to the small of Holmes’ back, guiding him towards the waters.

As we stepped into the low pool, he whispered, “My Dear fellow, you must know by now that yours is the only touch I care to know in that way.”

“I do not doubt it, Holmes.” I blustered, adding,”Though it is nice to hear you say so,” just before I sank below the waters. The tepid water felt bracing after the heat of the steam room, but I adjusted readily. Though there were others in the room, not a soul was in the waters with us and we enjoyed a leisurely swim before heading for the massage rooms. 

At times, we skipped them. Holmes could be reticent to be touched at all by unfamiliar hands, and depending on what activities we had or had not allowed ourselves depending on the crowds or mood of the baths, I often found myself overeager to repair to the privacy of our flat. Sated today, and still favoring my old wound, he nodded to them and I followed.

Holmes made the arrangements, speaking with Bayram, a familiar attendant, in hushed tones in regarding my injuries. Bayram shook his head and ran off to fetch a more skilled masseuse. He returned in a few moments with an older man, Aydin, who took up the bottle of sweet almond oil, pouring it into his hands and rubbing them together to warm it.

I was laid out on pillows and he began the massage. The scent reminded me of our recent tryst and I was grateful to be laid out on my stomach as my prick gave a twitch at the memory. I breathed deeply focusing on the sensations in that moment and not those of the steam room, settling myself. My muscles were fairly relaxed from our efforts and the heat, but the two pairs of skilled hands, Bayram and Aydin working together, soon put me at even greater ease until I felt as though I could rightly melt into the floor. 

Holmes watched them work, with more than passing interest. I caught him out of the corner of my eye, at times allowing his hands in midair to mimic their motions. 

When Aydin moved to my injured shoulder, he beckoned Holmes forward, speaking rapidly in Zaza. Holmes laughed and thanked him, kneeling on the floor beside him.

He brought Homes’ hand to my shoulder, moving his own over to show him just how to press. I let out a groan. It was uncomfortable for a few moments, but once they stopped, I blew out a breath in relief. I rolled my shoulder slightly, testing it and smiled. It had stopped hurting entirely. 

“Amazing,” I exclaimed.

Holmes smiled and tipped the man well. On our way out, he remarked of our attendant, “It is always excellent to find one so well suited to their work. Aydin learned massage from his grandfather and now teaches it to his son. I was surprised when he offered to show me, but his highest mission is to provide comfort. He earns a living, but I think he would do it anyway. It gives him as much pleasure in the practice of it as I gain from the solving of a great puzzle.”

“Truly remarkable,” I said. “I am lucky to benefit from his expertise.”

Holmes smile broadened. “It is best to learn from one who is not only an expert, but one who loves their work.” My cheeks heated as something in his intonation told me we were no longer speaking of massage and more of the teaching I had done over the past years of the nature and practice of love. 

I inclined my head and whispered low, “I love you.” Before we ventured from these safe walls, I drew his hand up to my lips, kissing his knuckles with tenderness.

His eyes shone, overbright as though he might shed a tear. He blinked and it was gone, but the depth of his affection was still clear. “I love you too, my dearest Watson.”


End file.
